With a Waltz, We Fall
by TabbyCat33098
Summary: Sherlock just wants to dance, but he doesn't have a partner. Anderson just wants to dance, but the only partner he wants has no interest in him. Can they find a compromise? One-sided Anderlock, one-sided Johnlock


A/N: This was supposed to be an 800 word drabble, and then it wasn't. So. Yeah, my muse got away from me. I wrote this while doing a Sherlock S3 marathon with my little sister and her best friends, so that was fun. Also, I'm posting this at 4:30 in the morning, so sorry for any typos.

I may have to take a bit of a break from writing as I get standardized testing out of the way. I will try and get Sunshine:During done soon, but other than that, most fics are probably on hold until mid-April. Idk though, we'll just have to see.

As always, all reviews, alerts, and favs are much appreciated. I do reply to all reviews, so type away! I hope you enjoy, and happy reading! :)

* * *

**With a Waltz, We Fall**

He leaves the moment he determines there's nothing left for him to do. No more duties to fulfill, no more pleasantries to endure, no more smiles to fake. He's given his speech, played his waltz, given John and Mary the happy news. Oh, he could stay and dance, of course, except...

There's really no one to dance with, is there?

John, who he's been practicing with for weeks, now has a wife with whom to put all the practice to good use. Besides, it would be rude of Sherlock to ask to dance with John on his wedding day, even more so when John has spent so long affirming his (admittedly rather questionable) heterosexuality. Sherlock's done enough to fuck up John's wedding; today is not the day to prove that John is more sexually deviant than he believes.

Mary, who is a rather attractive and intelligent woman, is wholly in love with John. Which, on one hand, would make it more acceptable to dance with her, since he would have no reason to steal her away or affect her beyond her wishes. But then again, it is her _wedding day_. And she is, after all, completely infatuated with John. It's not Sherlock's place to steal her away from the source of her happiness on this day.

Molly, who has always been a bit in love with Sherlock, has Tom. Oh, she would adore the chance to dance with him, for this small attention after a decade of failed attempts, but Sherlock feels it would be improper of him to spite Tom that way, when Tom's happiness and unhappiness so directly influence Molly. Dancing with her would only harm her further.

Janine, who is the only other person at this sham of a celebration Sherlock might consider dancing with, has already found herself someone to dance with. That's all on Sherlock though, he's man enough to admit that. Perhaps if he had tried a little harder, fudged his deductions a bit, she wouldn't have found a man who suited her needs, and Sherlock would have a pretty, intelligent, witty dance partner with whom to pass the rest of the night.

It's a shame, really. Sherlock's always loved to dance, ever since he was a child. His mother put him into ballet lessons so he could have some kind of hobby besides irritating Mycroft and playing with body parts. It seemed like a stupid idea at the time, but from the first step, the first jump, Sherlock was captivated by the fluidity and science behind the art of dance. It only progressed from there.

But there's nothing for it now. So Sherlock tucks away the waltz he's composed and leaves it for Mary and John to find, the absolute _last_ thing he has left to do, and pushes through the doors into the cold night, slipping into his jacket along the way.

* * *

He finds himself sitting at the bar in John's favorite pub an hour later, though he can't recall why he's come. Is he subconsciously thinking of John, involuntarily imitating John's habits in the hopes that it'll draw the doctor back to Sherlock's side? Is he falling prey to sentiment, letting his heart think for him?

Sherlock decides that he can deal with the soul-searching in the morning and orders a beer.

He proceeds to down drink after drink until he's floating happily in a hazy stupor. The world has taken on fuzzy edges, all the background noise has been muffled, and for once in his life, Sherlock can look at someone without finagling their entire life story from the shoes they're wearing the way they hold their glass.

Briefly, he wonders why he doesn't do this more often. Then a slew of facts float up through the fog, a ragtag bunch of trivia that remind him of the exact consequences of drinking. "That's why," he whispers quietly to himself, thinking of hangovers and addiction and impeded mental processes. "Because I'm smart. And alcohol isn't." He giggles quietly.

"The great Sherlock Holmes giggling to himself in the back corner of a pub?" comes an incredulous voice. Sherlock's eyes narrow at that as he tries to place the speaker, but when his head starts aching, he gives it up as a lost cause. He looks behind him to find the source of the voice, and nearly drops his drink when he does.

"Anderson?" he splutters. He attempts to discreetly wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but he supposes he utterly fails.

"And in a tuxedo, no less," Anderson continues, as though he didn't hear Sherlock. He takes a seat next to Sherlock and flags down the bartender, ordering a whiskey. "Care to share?"

For some reason, warning bells go off in Sherlock's head, though they're a bit muffled by all the cotton in his ears. Is that...is he not supposed to talk to Anderson? Anderson is...not good, not at all, Sherlock gathers...but why? He seems like a decent enough bloke, if a bit dumb. But then, they all are, aren't they?

Sherlock quiets the bells pounding in his head and attempts to focus on Anderson. He frowns when his vision remains blurry, even after squinting, and stares doubtfully at the glass in his hand. Perhaps he's had a few too many drinks. "John's getting married today," he announces to Anderson while undergoing this personal crisis. "And I can't dance. At the wedding. Clearly I can dance. I'm a good dancer. 'T's a bloody shame, it is." He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, all the while regretting how defensive he sounds.

Anderson looks amused, from what Sherlock can see, but that can't quite be right, can it? Sherlock's not joking. He's dead serious. So why is Anderson grinning like the bloody Cheshire cat?

"Stop...stop that," he mutters darkly into his glass, waving vaguely towards Anderson's face. "'S not funny."

"The great Sherlock Holmes, roaring drunk," Anderson says instead, now sounding like he's holding back laughter.

"Stop it!" Sherlock says indignantly, with more force this time. "I'm not the...the great sodding anything. Great sodding failure, maybe. Great idiot." He takes another swig from his beer.

Anderson cocks his head and takes a pull from his own drink. "Those aren't words I thought I'd ever hear used in association with you," he remarks. "How come? How come you're a great sodding idiot, I mean."

"Human error," Sherlock says vaguely, and refuses to elaborate. "And because I want to dance," he says a moment later. "Why do I want to dance, Anderson?"

Anderson raises an eyebrow. "Why _do_ you want to dance?" he repeats unhelpfully.

Sherlock mulls on this. He tries to take another pull from the mug, but to his surprise, it's empty. He goes to flag down the bartender again, but Anderson pulls his hand down. "No more for you," he says, rather unfairly in Sherlock's opinion. "You've had enough."

Pouting, Sherlock stares into his empty glass. "Because it's fun, I suppose," he says finally. "And because I want someone to dance with." He falls silent.

"Why do you want someone to dance with?" Anderson prompts. He takes a drink, and Sherlock stares at him enviously.

Sherlock's brows furrow. "It shows...it shows that thing. With the happiness. And hearts. And sentiment. Ugh, sentiment. What a horrid thing, don't you agree?" He flops forward, suddenly tired of holding his own body weight, and lets his head rest on the cool wood of the bar.

"Love, you mean?" Anderson says. He's back to the amusement now. It's getting pretty damn annoying. Still, Sherlock waves his hand in acknowledgment without lifting his head. "What's so horrid about love? Everyone looks for love," Anderson protests.

Sherlock freezes. He heaves his head back up and stares at Anderson. "You're in love with someone," he accuses after a moment. "Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, faint blush. How..._human_."

"So what if I am!" Anderson says, miffed. "Anyway, this isn't about me, it's about you."

"Is it?" Sherlock wonders. "But you hate me. Or you did, at least. Do you still hate me?" He groans and lets hid head flop down again. "Why is alcohol so numbing, John?"

He hears Anderson inhale sharply, but he's too lazy to look up and ask why.

"So that's it, then," Anderson says after a moment. "You're in love with John, but you can't dance with him because it's his bloody wedding."

Sherlock squints into the darkness. "Yes," he says after a moment. "Yes, I do believe that's it." Considering Sherlock hadn't even known that's what the problem was, it's rather a relief to have it laid out in front of him, like a case he can dissect and suss out the meaning to.

They're silent for several moments as Anderson slowly finishes his whiskey and Sherlock falls asleep at the bar.

"Right, up you go, then," Anderson says decisively and hauls Sherlock out of the seat. He arranges the taller man so he's leaning on Anderson, with his arm wrapped around Anderson's neck, and proceeds to march him out of the bar.

"Where're we goin'?" Sherlock mumbles, not opening his eyes.

"221B Baker Street," Anderson replies as he bundles them into a cab. It's the last thing Sherlock notices before he blacks out.

* * *

The next thing Sherlock knows, he's falling onto the couch in 221B with Anderson dropping into John's chair. He's slightly more sober now, the cold air and change of location having helped get rid of some of the fog. He waves towards Anderson and says, "That's...that's John's," before a wave of nausea rolls through him, and he has to curl into a ball to keep himself from vomiting.

Anderson shoots up with a small "oh!" and heads into the kitchen. A moment later, he returns, holding a glass of water in his had. He pushes it towards Sherlock. "It'll help," he says. Sherlock takes it gratefully and chugs it down. He lets it drop to the side, unable to even comprehend maneuvering around the flat and kitchen in his state.

Anderson's still standing there, bouncing awkwardly on the soles of his feet, but not saying anything or even looking in Sherlock's direction. Finally, Sherlock can't take it anymore. "What?" he asks tersely. "Why are you still here?"

Anderson glances at Sherlock and looks away almost immediately. "I was thinking," he begins, and trails away.

"Never a good idea," Sherlock mutters sarcastically. He wishes Anderson would just spit it out; it's late, and there's a couch waiting for him with his name written on it.

"Oh, shut up," Anderson says with a half-hearted glare, but there's no heat in his words. He still isn't looking at Sherlock. "Anyway, I was thinking, you wanted to dance, right?"

Sherlock tries to think. Did he want to dance? What would have caused him to...oh. Right. John's wedding. And the waltz. And Janine. "Yes," he says now. And it's true. Despite his less-than-sober state, he does still want to dance. If only he could find a..._oh!_

Suddenly, Sherlock knows with full confidence what Anderson's going to say next.

"And the only thing preventing you from doing so is the obvious lack of a partner," Anderson continues. Sherlock refrains from commenting on the impressive statement of the obvious. "And, well. Perhaps I could be that partner." He shoots a tentative look at Sherlock, and the detective sees immense hope reflected in his eyes, though it's buried under caution.

"It's me," Sherlock says quietly. "The one you're in love with."

Anderson colors, but he doesn't deny it. "You'll forget in the morning," he says instead. "I figured, what's the harm?"

Sherlock stares at his feet for a few minutes. But in the end, the promise of relief is too much.

"Why not," Sherlock says, and pulls himself upright. He staggers to the boombox, still resting where he had left it after practicing with John last. It takes him a moment to remember how to operate it, but once he does, soft violin strains fill the flat. He turns to Anderson, assuming what he hopes is the correct posture. Anderson steps into his arms almost immediately, and the two of them begin the familiar pattern of _stepstepturn_ around the cramped room.

Realistically, somewhere beyond the fuzz filling his mind, Sherlock is aware that this is a mistake. Come morning, he won't even remember that this happened. Anderson will gain blackmail material on him. In addition, if Anderson truly loves Sherlock, then Sherlock's only hurting the other man in the long run.

But right here, right now, being held in another man's arms, Sherlock can't bring himself to care. For now, he can just pretend that it's John who's standing opposite him, John who's moving parallel to him, John whose arms are wrapped around him, and John's love which holds him tight within its embrace.

**FIN**


End file.
